First of all she sought information in her library. "The Lamplighter," to begin with, then "Goldelse," and "Barefeet." These were the maturist novels that she possessed. The writings of Clara Cron and Otilie Wildemuth were as yet not even to be thought of. She couldn't find any reference to the problem that bothered her, not even a hint that it existed. So she turned from fiction to the classics. Schiller--Amalia was a young girl--Luise (now she was coming to it, perhaps) a married woman--Queen of Spain, of course. But in this case it was clear as daylight that you couldn't believe the poet; for to be in love with your stepmother was a thing which could only happen in the world of imagination, that world in which genius, detached from earth and intoxicated with inspiration, roams at large. She hadn't written for nothing a German composition two years ago on "Genius and Reality," in which this question had been exhaustively dealt with. Those beautiful phrases, "genius detached from earth," and "intoxicated with inspiration," were quotations from it. "Why are you rummaging so amongst the books?" asked Elly, who was already in bed, and before falling asleep, enjoying herself by stretching the counterpane tight between her teeth and feet, and pretending to play the banjo on it. As she alternately tightened and slackened her hold on the linen, it produced sounds, high and low, which distantly resembled those of a stringed instrument. Hertha considered whether she should demean herself so far as to ask advice from this child. But, in her dire necessity, she did not long demur. "Look here, Mouse," she said, sitting down by the head of the bed, "I want to ask you something. You are in love with a man, aren't you?" "Oh yes," replied Elly, playing with her fingers. "And you are quite sure that this man loves you too?" "Why do you say _man_?" asked Elly. "Kurt is my ideal. Before it was Benno, and before that Alfred, but now it is Kurt. But, all the same, I don't think of him as a man." "What is he, then?" "Why, a _young_ man." "Well, young man, if you like. Certainly, he is not my idea of a man." And her eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. Did she not know what a proper man _ought_ to be like? "Do you think, Mouse, that any man, or young man--it doesn't matter which--could love a married woman?" "Of course ... quite easily," answered Elly, in her superb serenity. Hertha smiled surreptitiously at such denseness. "No, Mouse, you don't understand," she said. "I don't mean the woman who is his wife, but the woman who is married to some one else." "That's what I mean too." "And it seems to you quite natural?" "Really, I should not have thought you so inexperienced," said the little lady. "One's bound to know such things. In old days it was much worse. The man who was a brave knight _always_ loved the wife of some one else. To love his own would have been thought ridiculous.... It is all in König's 'Unabridged History of Literature.'"